


Live to Forget

by Linorien



Category: James Bond - All Media Types, James Bond - Ian Fleming
Genre: F/M, Podfic, mentions of past Bond/Tracy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-05 05:25:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15857100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linorien/pseuds/Linorien
Summary: A remix of You Only Live Twice by Ian Fleming. (The plot is curtsy of the original; I am merely cutting out 80% of the book to make it better).Bond is still a wreck over Tracy's death. M is sending him on one last mission. Good thing he finds himself a mentor.Also a podfic!





	1. How Do You Solve a Problem like James Bond?

**Author's Note:**

> This does contain some excerpts from the original text. Usually you can tell because it's a bit of great description.

Full work audio playlist

[Chapter 1 audio](https://soundcloud.com/linorien-undomiel/chapter-1-how-do-you-solve-a-problem-like-james-bond/s-LyE3Y)

James Bond, designation 007, was a wreck. M looked at the last handful of mission reports and despaired. Even after three months off after Tracy’s sudden death, Bond’s performance on missions was terrible. Assets were lost, secrecy was compromised, and Bond returned more damaged than he ever had in the past.

Every agent hit an endpoint. Most had the common courtesy to retire themselves at the end of a mission. A few requested transfer into civilian security services. 007 was too stubborn to admit that his career was finished. M was itching to shoot the man himself, but Sir James Molony, nerve specialist by appointment to the Secret Service and good friend of M’s, proposed sending Bond on one last mission. A mission guaranteed to kill him. 

* * *

As 007 touched down in Japan, he felt new life thrum through his veins. Even Ms Moneypenny and Mary Goodnight had noticed his general displeasure with the Secret Service. It had all seemed so pointless. What good were a handful of agents running around the globe with a license to kill when a single shot on a hillside in Italy could rip your loved one from your arms? He had been a second chance on life for Tracy; who would save him?

Yet maybe it wouldn’t be a person, but a place. The sun brightened his mood and the beautiful women of Japan made his pulse quicken. He remembered a professor at university telling him about the country. “And there’s an earthquake about every day. But don’t worry about them. They just make you feel slightly drunk. The typhoons are worse. If one starts to blow, go into the stoutest bar you can see and get drunk.” It had seemed marvelous advice then, and even better now.

But before the bar, Bond needed to meet with the head of Japanese Security Services and gain his trust. According to M, they had some intelligence that MI6 wanted. 


	2. The Deadly Game

[Chapter 2 audio](https://soundcloud.com/linorien-undomiel/chapter-2-the-deadly-game/s-Nyn4P)

James Bond found Tiger Tanaka to be a wonderful man. He brought Bond to restaurants with beautiful servers and plenty of saké and they played the most dramatic game of rock-paper-scissors the world had ever seen. It was East vs West and more psychology than luck. Would it be gracious to lose to his host, or would it be an insult not to play to win? And how do you try to lose a game with no long term strategies?

Ultimately he decided he was thinking too much and ended up winning with a bow and a throwaway joke. Evidently he did well for Mr.Tanaka than invited him back to his home. It was here that he got a measure of how the Japanese Security Service worked. 

“I beg you on oath not to reveal to anyone what you are about to read,” Mr.Tanaka said, meeting Bond’s eye with deadly intent. 

“I do swear,” Bond answered. 

Mr.Tanaka slid a paper across the desk. Thankfully it was in English. When one had gotten around the diplomatic nonsense, it said that the Russians were in possession of an airborne weapon known as Magic 44. It predicted that if dropped in just two places in the UK, it would destroy the entire country. Why didn’t his service know about this?

“It is a mistake that you are keeping this material from us,” he protested. “We have a treaty of friendship and a trade treaty with you. Do you not regard the withholding of this vital information as a dishonourable act?”

“Honour is a very serious word in Japan, Commander. Would it not be even more dishonourable to break our word to our good American friends? They have several times assured me and my government that any information of vital importance to our other friends and allies will be passed on to them in such a way as not to divulge the source. I have no evidence that they are not pursuing this routine.”

What utter rot. In their line of business, knowing the source was more valuable than the content of the message. Even if the Americans had passed on part of this information to M, it would receive a much lower rating than it deserved. 

No doubt reading the fury on Bond’s face, Mr.Tanaka added, “There is, of course, in this instance, an alternative route for this information to reach your government.” His face crinkled wickedly.

Bond leant urgently over the desk. “But I gave my word of honour!”

But Mr.Tanaka had one sly mind. He explained that although honour was very serious to his people, this was superseded by life debts. He felt indebted to the English for his education and just as bamboo sways in the breeze, man cannot always be rigid. He has been swayed by Bond’s own countenance and would turn the other way should Bond wire London at once. 

 

And now it was a month later and Mr. Tanaka had become “Tiger” and Commander Bond had become “Bondo-san.” Tiger had explained that James Bond was a difficult set of letters to say in Japanese so a respectful alternative was chosen. He promised it didn’t mean anything rude. 

Bond had received no signal back from London, so he resolved to wait. Normally he abhorred this part of a mission. But now he had Tiger. 

Tiger showed him the wonders of his country and in the evenings entertained Bond with philosophical debates. On the 13th of September, Tiger spoke of the influx of foreigners in Japan after the war. They were watching the sunset on Tiger’s balcony as was their Friday tradition. 

Tiger complained at length about the Americans in Japan. “The Japanese way of life is particularly attractive to the American who wishes to escape from a culture which, I am sure you will agree, has become, to say the least of it, more and more unattractive. They value the fleeting and the bright neon lights of fame. And worse, their disease is spreading into our own country.” He spat angrily over the balcony. “Such is the price of defeat in the war.”

Bond sipped his saké while Tiger continued to complain about the Americans ruining his country and not appreciating the true history of the land. But when his drink ran out, he decided to interrupt, reminding Tiger that “surely not every American fit that description. I know many of that variety, but I also have met honest men in the arts and sciences who are valued members of their community. Indeed the most noble man I know is a counterpart of mine in the CIA.”

Tiger breathed in and out in a long sigh. “You are right to correct me; I have friends like this too. I was letting off steam. You understand?”

“Of course, Tiger. My country has not been occupied for many centuries. The imposition of a new culture on an old one is something we have not suffered. I cannot imagine my reactions in the same circumstances. Much the same as yours, I expect. Please go on with your story.” Bond reached for the saké flask. It stood in a jar of warm water being heated over a slow flame from a charcoal burner. He filled his glass and drank. 

“As I have said,”Tiger continued, “there are a number of foreigners who have taken up residence in Japan, and for the most part, they are inoffensive eccentrics. But there is one such person who entered the country in January of this year who has revealed himself to be an eccentric of the most devilish nature. This man is a monster. You may laugh, Bondo-san, but this man is no less than a fiend in human form.”

Bond smiled. “I have met many bad men in my time, Tiger, and generally they have been slightly mad. Is that the case in this instance?”

“Very much the reverse. The calculated ingenuity of this man, his understanding of the psychology of my people, show him to be a man of quite outstanding genius. In the opinion of our highest scholars and savants, he is a scientific research worker and collector probably unique in the history of the world.”

Bond grew serious. “What does he collect?”

“He collects death.”


	3. Delicate Western Flowers

[Chapter 3 audio](https://soundcloud.com/linorien-undomiel/chapter-3-delicate-western-flowers/s-aayfM)

Tiger went on to explain that this particular foreigner, Doctor Shatterhand, had established a Castle of Death. The perfect place for suicide. And it was more than a simple high ledge with a stunning view. There were pits of acid, and every deadly plant in the world had been imported to be studied. Tiger showed him an extensive list of the plants and their symptoms. Whether a man desired a quick death, or a slow and painful demise, this garden was the ultimate final destination. 

“His present tally, in just under six months, is something over five hundred Japanese,” Tiger said solemnly. 

Bond whistled low. “Why don’t you arrest him? Clearly you have enough evidence.”

“Bondo-san, it is not as easy as that. He came into this country in perfectly legal ways. He is backed by Switzerland many times over, and our own agricultural scientists revere him for his contributions to science. The man contributes more of his own money to the field that our government can provide in ten years.” Tiger took a sip of his own glass. “There are also the rumours that Doctor Shatterhand and his wife have restored the Black Dragon Society to be their guards and gardeners.”

“Black Dragon Society?”

“In its heyday it was the most feared and powerful secret society in Japan. Their once noble motto became corrupt and they were the biggest extremists in the country. And now they serve this garden of death, no doubt dressed for the part, but no less deadly.”

Tiger continued for twenty minutes to explain to Bond the dangers of this Castle of Death. He had tried to send men there before, but they barely returned and died gruesome deaths after delivering their message. 

“What do you intend to do next?” Bond asked. 

Tiger looked at him and a wicked grin spread across his face. “There is a man I have been studying closely for some time, testing his wits and his courage. I have examined his soul and found it good. I believe this man is ready for the mission.”

Bond was tired of this elusive speak. “Balls, Tiger. Out with it already! Who is this man?”

“I speak of you, Bondo-san. You are to enter this Castle of Death and slay the dragon within.”

Bond was silent. Could he be the St George of this story? He had been asked to defeat a dragon before, so long ago on Crab Key. The dragon had been nothing more than a decorated tank with a propane fuelled fire. But Bond could sense that Doctor Shatterhand was an enemy to contend with. The Black Dragon society reminded him of the ruthlessness of Spectre and Smersh before them. 

This barest connection stirred the blood. Had he not been itching for revenge since Tracy’s death? He didn’t care if Tiger said suicides were respectable in Japan, an honourable death or something. He had seen enough death in his life to stand by and let this Doctor serve it on a silver platter. Life fought to go on and if someone was suppressing that, he needed to fight back. 

The sun had completely vanished now, even the lingering light was only just above the horizon. Only the decorative candles on the balcony shed any light on the dark subjects. Like many other missions, this would be conducted in the shadows. It was only right that it was given and accepted as the world revolved from light to dark. 

Bond took a fortifying drink. “Alright. What’s the plan?”

Tiger clapped Bond on the shoulder. “Tonight, we rest. Tomorrow, I teach you to be Japanese.”

 

Bond woke up in the morning not knowing what to expect from Tiger’s plan. He wondered if there would be makeup involved to make him look Asian, but with his height he wasn’t sure. It turned out there was very little in the way of physical appearance. Though a haircut and body waxing was insisted on. More of the training was focused on how to act. 

 

“No swearing, please. There are no swear-words in the Japanese language, and the usage of bad language does not exist.”

“But good heavens, Tiger! No self-respecting man could get through the day without his battery of four-letter words to cope with the roughage of life and let off steam. If you’re late for a vital appointment with your superiors, and you find that you’ve left all your papers at home, surely you say, well, Freddie Uncle Charlie Katie, if I may put it so as not to offend.”

“No,” said Tiger. “I would say ‘Shimatta,’ which means ‘I have made a mistake.’ ”

That was one of the hardest lessons. 

“Be calm, stoical, impassive. Do not show anger. Smile at misfortune. If you sprain your ankle, laugh.”

“Tiger, you’re a cruel taskmaster.” 

Tiger grinned with satisfaction. “Bondo-san, you don’t know the half of it.” 

Tiger took him out into the city the next day. He followed Tiger along the narrow streets, gaily hung with paper banners and lanterns, unlike the usual discreet frontage and dwarf pines that he had become accustomed to. He followed Tiger to a restaurant where once again they were sitting on the ground. It had only been a day but already Bond found that his head was bursting with rules of etiquette he couldn't remember and lessons about the kami-kaze begged from Tiger that seemed beyond belief. What was this crazy plan anyway? Was this all an elaborate scheme to force him to retire? M was a crafty bastard, but this seemed too far for him. 

He was cursing this mission when Tiger brusquely ordered him to don one of the yukatas that hung with the bedding in the single cupboard in the paper wall.

“You really must concentrate, Bondo-san,” said Tiger mildly. “But you are making progress. As a reward, I have ordered saké to be brought in large quantities and then a dinner of the speciality of this place—lobster.”

Bond’s spirits rose minutely. He undressed to his pants, donned the dark- brown yukata (“Stop!” from Tiger. “Wrap it round to the right! Only a corpse wraps it round to the left.”), and adopted the lotus position across the low table from Tiger. He had to admit that the kimono was airy and comfortable. He bowed low. This he could do for the promise of lobster. Lobster and some more saké. 

He fought to contain a swear when he heard Tiger’s next plan for him. “Come again?” he asked with all the politeness he could muster.  

“A coal-miner from Fukuoka. There are many tall men in that profession. Your hands are not rough enough, but you pushed a truck underground. Your nails will be filled with coal dust when the time comes. You were too stupid to wield a pick. You are deaf and dumb. Here,” Tiger slipped across a scrubby card, creased and dog-eared. There were some Japanese characters on it. “That reads deaf and dumb. Your disability will inspire pity and some distaste. If someone talks to you, show that and they will desist. They may also give you a few pieces of small coin. Accept them and bow deeply.”

Bond had donned many ridiculous disguises for missions, but this one would be the most humiliating. However, he would rarely need to use the cover. If all goes to plan, that is. Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the food. 

Lacquer boxes of rice, raw quails’ eggs in sauce, and bowls of sliced seaweed were placed in front of them both. Then they were each given a fine oval dish bearing a large lobster whose head and tail had been left as a dainty ornament to the sliced pink flesh in the centre. Bond set to with his chopsticks. He was surprised to find that the flesh was raw. He was even more surprised when the head of his lobster began moving off his dish and, with questing antennae and scrabbling feet, tottered off across the table. “Good God, Tiger!” Bond said, aghast. “The damn thing’s alive!”

Tiger hissed impatiently, “Really, Bondo-san. I am much disappointed in you. You fail test after test. I sincerely hope you will show improvement during the rest of our journey. Now eat up and stop being squeamish. This is a very great Japanese delicacy.”

James Bond bowed ironically. “Shimatta!” he said. “I have made a mistake. It crossed my mind that honourable Japanese lobster might not like being eaten alive. Thank you for correcting the unworthy thought.”

“You will soon become accustomed to the Japanese way of life,” said Tiger graciously.

“It’s their way of death that’s got me a little bit puzzled,” said Bond amiably, and he handed his glass to the waitress for more saké to give him strength to try the seaweed.


	4. Wheels of Judgement

[Chapter 4 audio](https://soundcloud.com/linorien-undomiel/chapter-4-wheels-of-judgement/s-uE79U)

A couple more days passed and Bond grew increasingly bitter with Japanese life. It involved too much bowing and scraping and no expression of emotions. The only solution to anger was suicide or murder, a gross waste of life. He couldn’t understand where honour came into the picture.

But all that was pushed from his mind when Tiger took him for a day trip to a training facility of his service. “I am taking you to one of the secret training establishments of my service,” he said. “It is here that my agents are trained in one of the arts most dreaded in Japan—ninjutsu, which is, literally, the art of stealth or invisibility. You will see men walk across the surface of water, walk up walls and across ceilings, and you will be shown equipment which makes it possible for them to remain submerged under water for a full day. I think you will be interested and perhaps learn something yourself at this place. I have never approved of agents carrying guns and other obvious weapons. It is an obvious sign of guilt.”

“Yes, that makes sense. We have a similar commando training school for unarmed combat attached to headquarters.”

The castle was the usual horned roof affair of Japanese prints. It stood in a cleft between the mountains that must have once been an important pass. They were stopped at the gate to a wooden causeway across a brimming moat and again at the castle entrance. Tiger showed his pass, and there was much deep bowing from the plainclothes guards and a bell clanged in the topmost tier of the soaring edifice.

With some instructions from Tiger, the trainees quickly began a series of demonstrations. Boys scaled the castle walls like spiders and did indeed run across the moat with the assistance of wooden contraptions. Bond was astonished to see tremendous thrusts and whacks into the groin leaving the victim unmoved when he, Bond, would have been writhing in agony. What impressed Bond the most was that any tool they used was hidden in the folds of their all black uniform.

After the demonstration had concluded and the mock invaders were defeated, Tiger gave a brief and fierce speech of congratulation on the sincerity of the display, and Bond was led into the castle to drink tea and view the museum of ninja armament.

This included small spiked steel wheels which could be whirled on the finger and thrown, sharp nails twisted into knots for defeating barefoot pursuers (Bond remembered similar devices spread on the roads by the Resistance to puncture the tyres of German staff cars), hollowed bamboo for breathing underwater (Bond had used the same device during an adventure on a Caribbean island), varieties of brass knuckles, gloves whose palms were studded with very sharp, slightly hooked nails for “walking” up walls and across ceilings, and a host of similar rather primitive gadgets of offence and defence.

Bond made appropriate noises of approval and amazement and reflected on the Russian invention used with much success in West Germany, a cyanide gas pistol that left no trace and a sure diagnosis of heart failure. Tiger’s much vaunted ninjutsu just wasn’t in the same league! He told Tiger that he was very impressed with his school, but privately he thought that none of his ninja would last long in East Berlin.

Perhaps Tiger sensed his feelings, for they did not return to the training school. Bond actually was granted a brief respite in the form of a western-style hotel for the night. The comfortable bed, air-conditioning, and lavatory on which one could actually sit were out of this world. Better still, Bond ordered a pint of Jack Daniels and a double portion of eggs Benedict to be brought up to his room. Then, from a belated sense of duty, he watched “The Seven Detectives,” a famous Japanese television series, failed to spot the villain, and went to bed and slept for twelve hours.

He was slightly hungover the next day, and followed sluggishly behind Tiger on a tour of, well, he couldn’t remember what. He only actually woke up when he realised Tiger was trying to teach him poetry.

“Bondo-san, I wonder if I will ever get you to appreciate the nuances of the Japanese tanka, or of the haiku, which are the classical forms of Japanese verse.”

He gave Bond examples of the seventeen syllable verse and then demanded Bond compose one of his own. Determined to please his teacher, Bond actually thought about the words. He hadn’t much training in verse, but studies of Latin and Greek were not without poems. After many attempts, he arrived at one he was satisfied with.

“You only live twice: Once when you’re born, Once when you look death in the face.” Tiger clapped his hands softly. He said with real delight, “But that is excellent, Bondo-san. Most sincere.” He took the pen and paper and jotted some Japanese characters up the page. He shook his head. “No, it won’t do in Japanese. You have the wrong number of syllables. But it is a most honourable attempt.”

Never good enough for Tiger.

After lunch, they visited the geysers of Kyushu. The place stunk of sulphur, but at the appointed time, there came a rumbling from underground and a jet of steaming grey mud shot twenty feet up into the air and splashed down inside the enclosure. As Bond was turning away, he noticed a large red painted wheel, heavily padlocked and surrounded by wire netting in a small separate enclosure. There were warning notices above it and a particularly menacing skull and crossbones. Bond asked Tiger what it was.

“It says that this wheel controls the pulse of the geyser. It says that if this wheel were screwed down it could result in the destruction of the entire establishment. It gives the explosive force of the volcano, if the exhaust valve of the geyser were to be closed, as the equivalent of a thousand pounds of T.N.T. It is, of course, all a bit of nonsense to attract the tourists.”

Dinner was a pleasant affair. He was able to sit in Western-style chairs again and was served plenty of sake to keep his spirits high. Despite what he felt must be a miserable report card so far, Bond was proud of the fact that he had reached Black Belt standard with his chopsticks—the ability to eat an underdone fried egg with them.

When they had finished the meal, Bond sat back and lit a cigarette. He said, “Well, Tiger. This is nearly the end of my education. Tomorrow you say I am to leave the nest. How many marks out of a hundred?”

Tiger looked at him quizzically. “You have done well, Bondo-san. Apart from your inclination to make Western jokes about Eastern customs. Fortunately I am a man of infinite patience, and I must admit that your company has given me much pleasure and a certain amount of amusement. I will award you seventy-five marks out of a possible hundred.” Better than Bond had expected.


	5. Instincts

[Chapter 5 audio](https://soundcloud.com/linorien-undomiel/chapter-5-instincts/s-8uR21)

They arrived at headquarters and gathered around a blown-up aerial mosaic of the Castle of Death and the surrounding lands. At first glance, Bond’s heart quailed. He might just as well try and storm Windsor Castle single-handed! The estate covered the whole expanse of a small peninsula and the two- hundred-foot cliff was surrounded by giant stone blocks down to the breaking waves to form an unbroken wall that sloped slightly up to gun-ports and the irregularly sited tiled watch-towers. From the top of this wall there appeared to be a ten-foot drop into the park, heavily treed and shrubbed between winding streams and a broad lake with a small island in its centre. Steam appeared to be rising from the lake, and there were occasional wisps of it among the shrubbery. 

At the back of the property stood the castle, protected from the low-lying country-side by a comparatively modest wall. It would be over this wall that the suicides gained access. The castle itself was a giant five-storeyed affair in the Japanese tradition, with swooping winged roofs of glazed tile. Bond picked up a large magnifying glass and ran over the whole property inch by inch, but there was nothing more to be gleaned except the presence of an occasional diminutive figure at work in the park or raking the gravel round the castle.

Bond laid down the glass. He said gloomily, “That’s not a castle! That’s a fortress! How am I supposed to get into the bloody place?”

“I have had a complete outfit sent down from my ninjutsu establishment. The seaward wall would present no problems.”

“I can swim well enough, but how do I get to the base of the wall? Where do I start from?”

“The superintendent says there is an Ama island called Kuro only half a mile out to sea.”

Tiger explained that the Ama people are quite reclusive. They live on small islands and dive for clams and oysters. The superintendent was distantly related to a family on the island who would be able to host Bond for a short while. Most unusually, their daughter had done a film in Hollywood and speaks English. 

His approach sorted, they moved onto the details. With Tiger’s ninja clothing and some simple tools, Bond could scale the cliff face and the castle walls. He would have a tow bag for food and an extra camouflage suit for the day. He would not have a gun. 

“Now, do you have a photograph of this man?”

While the superintendent dug through the files, he explained that he was only ever seen on the grounds in full medieval chain armor and the winged helmet of ancient Japanese warriors. He also carried a samurai sword at his waist. He handed over what looked like an enlarged passport photo. 

Bond took it nonchalantly. Then his whole body stiffened. He said to himself, God Almighty! Yes. There was no doubt, no doubt at all! He had grown a drooping black moustache. He had had the syphilitic nose repaired. There was a gold-capped tooth among the upper frontals, but there could be no doubt. Bond looked up. He said, “Have you got one of the woman?”

Startled by the look of controlled venom on Bond’s pale face, the superintendent scrabbled through his file.

Yes, there she was, the flat ugly wardress face, the dull eyes, the scraped-back bun of hair.

Bond held the pictures, not looking at them, thinking. Ernst Stavro Blofeld. Irma Bunt. So this was where they had come to hide! And the long strong gut of fate had lassoed him to them! They of all people! He of all people! A taxi- ride down the coast in this remote corner of Japan. Could they smell him coming? Had the dead spy got hold of his name and told them? Unlikely. The power and prestige of Tiger would have protected him. But would they know that an enemy was on his way? That fate had arranged this appointment in Samarra? Bond looked up from the pictures. He was in cold control of himself. This was now a private matter. It had nothing to do with Tiger or Japan. It had nothing to do with MAGIC 44. It was ancient feud. 

He resolved not to let Tiger know of his knowledge. He would not be taken off this mission. 

James Bond went through the rest of the morning like an automaton. While he tried on his ninja equipment and watched each item being carefully packed into a floatable plastic container, his mind was totally occupied with the image of his enemy—Blofeld, the great gangster who had founded SPECTRE, the man who was wanted by the police of all the NATO countries, the man who had murdered Tracy, Bond’s wife for less than a day, a bare nine months ago. And in those nine months, this evil genius had invented a new method of collecting death, as Tiger had put it. 

This cover as the Swiss Doctor Shatterhand, as a rich botanist, must have been one of the many he had wisely built up over the years. It would have been easy. A few gifts of rare plants to famous botanical gardens, the financing of a handful of expeditions, and all the while in the back of his mind the plan one day to retire. And what a garden! A garden that would be like a deadly fly-trap for human beings, a killing bottle for those who wanted to die. And of course Japan, with the highest suicide statistics in the world, a country with an unquenchable thirst for the bizarre, the cruel, and the terrible, would provide the perfect last refuge for him. 

Blofeld must have gone off his head, but with a monstrous, calculating madness—the madness of the genius he undoubtedly was. And the whole demoniac concept was on Blofeld’s usual grand scale—the scale of a Caligula, of a Nero, of a Hitler, of any other great enemy of life. The speed of execution was breathtaking, the expenditure fabulous, the planning, down to the use of the Black Dragon Society, meticulous, and the cover as impeccable as the Piz Gloria Clinic, which, less than a year before, Bond had helped to destroy utterly. And now the two enemies were lined up again, but this time David was spurred on to kill his Goliath not by duty but by blood feud! 

And with what weapons? Nothing but his bare hands, a two-inch pocket knife and a thin chain of steel. Well, similar weapons had served him before. Surprise would be the determining factor. Bond added a pair of black flippers to his equipment, a small supply of pemmican-like meat, a plastic flask of water. Then he was ready.


	6. Ama Island

[Chapter 6 audio](https://soundcloud.com/linorien-undomiel/chapter-6-ama-island/s-MRh6y)

They drove down the main street to where the police launch was waiting at the jetty and set off at a good twenty knots across the beautiful bay and round the headland into the Sea. Tiger produced sandwiches and a flask of saké for each of them, and they ate their luncheon as the jagged green coast with its sandy beaches passed slowly by to port. Tiger pointed out a distant dot on the horizon. “Kuro Island,” he said. “Cheer up, Bondo-san! You seem preoccupied. Think of all those beautiful women you will soon be swimming with! And this Japanese Greta Garbo with whom you will be passing the nights!”

Bond replied bitterly, “And the sharks who will already be gathering at the news of my swim to the castle!”

The small speck on the horizon grew larger and soon revealed itself as a horned island about five miles in circumference with steep cliffs and a small harbour facing north. On the mainland, Doctor Shatterhand’s small peninsula reached out into the sea, and the fortress-like black wall soared up out of the breaking waves. Above it were the tops of trees, and behind them, in the distance, the winged roof of the topmost storey of the castle broke the sky-line. The formidable silhouette reminded Bond vaguely of photographs of Alcatraz taken from sea-level. He shivered slightly at the thought of the night’s swim across the half-mile channel and of the black spider that would then scale those soaring fortifications. 

Bond’s morose mood continued until they landed on the island and he was presented to the family he would be staying with. Bond was led forward to the two women. Remembering Tiger’s lessons, he bowed low to the mother, but not too low as she was only a woman, and then he turned to the girl.

She laughed gaily. She said, “You don’t have to bow to me, and I shall never bow to you.” She held out her hand. “How do you do? My name is Kissy Suzuki.”

The hand was ice-cold. Bond said, “My name is Taro Todoroki, and I am sorry to have kept you here so long. You are cold and you ought to go and have your hot bath. It is very kind of your family to accept me as your guest, but I do not want to be an imposition. Are you sure it’s all right?”

“I’m sure. And I have been cold before. When you have finished with your distinguished friends, my mother and I will be happy to lead you to our house. I hope you are good at peeling potatoes.”

Bond was delighted. Thank God for a straightforward girl at last! No more bowing and hissing! He said, “I took a degree in it. And I am strong and willing and I don’t snore. What time do we take out the boat?”

“About five-thirty. When the sun comes up. Perhaps you will bring me good luck.”

Bond thought that it might be the other way around. Tiger was done speaking with the local priest and approached Bond’s side. He looked serious. He took Bond’s hand in both of his, an unusual gesture for a Japanese. He said, “Bondo-san, I am certain you will succeed, so I will not wish you luck. Nor will I say ‘sayōnara,’ farewell. I will simply say a quiet ‘banzai!’ to you.”

Bond suddenly found that he would miss this impossible taskmaster. He shook Tiger’s hand with great fondness. “Thanks for everything. Those live lobsters were really delicious. I shall now look forward to eating plenty of seaweed while I’m here. So long! See you in about a week.”

Tiger climbed back into the boat and they waved once in farewell. Bond turned away. The priest had gone. Kissy Suzuki said impatiently, “Come along, Todoroki-san. I will take you to your new home.”

And so the tall man with the dark face, the tall girl with the bright smile, and the old woman walked off along the shore with their angular Japanese shadows preceding them across the smooth black boulders.

 

Bond spend a few days on the island preparing to face his enemy. Most days were the same. Dawn bloomed over the sea in beautiful haze of gold and blue. Bond went outside and ate his bean curd and rice and drank his tea sitting on the spotless doorstep of the little cut-stone and timbered house.

Kissy collected him and her bird named David and put them both in the boat. He rowed them out to sea, to the spot Kissy picked. He watched as she dove with hardly a splash into the clear waters below. The first day he became almost frantic when she stayed under so long. Soon he became used to the pattern. Some days she even let him dive while she took a break. (It was a stark reminder that his lungs were in terrible shape.)

But the best moments were when they both rested in the boat. The sun shone brightly and Kissy seemed to glow in the light. Her face was more beautiful than the show girls Bond had seen in movies and in clubs. Yet she was plain in her beauty. She had chipped nails and her feet were rough with calluses. She was not putting on a show to please him and this pleased him all the more. 

In those moments, he thought there would be nothing more wonderful than to spend the rest of his life rowing her out towards the horizon during the day and coming back with her to the small clean house in the dusk.

He shrugged the whimsy aside. It wasn’t long till the full moon and he would have to get back to reality, to the dark dirty life he had chosen for himself. He put the prospect out of his mind. The days between would be stolen days, days with only Kissy and the boat and the bird and the sea. He must just see to it that they were happy days and lucky ones for her and her harvest of sea-shells.

Yet the day of the full moon did arrive. Time couldn’t be stopped by the likes of him. Kissy and Bond were sitting on a grassy hill. “Kissy, tonight I have to swim to the castle and climb the wall and get inside.”

She nodded. “I know this. And then you are going to kill this man and perhaps his wife. You are the man who we believe was to come to Kuro from across the sea and do these things.” She continued to gaze out to sea. She said dully, “But why have you been chosen? Why should it not be another, a Japanese?”

“It will cause less trouble for the state if the whole matter is presented as being trouble between foreigners.”

“Yes, I see. And if . . . And after. Will you come back and be my boatman again?” 

It was awfully tempting. “For a time,” he conceded. “But then I must go back to England.” 

“No. I believe that you will stay for a long time on Kuro.” 

“Why do you believe that?” 

“Because I prayed for it at the shrine. And I have never asked for such a big thing before. I am sure it will be granted.” She paused. “And I shall be swimming with you tonight.” She held up a hand. “You will need company in the dark, and I know the currents. You would not get there without me.”

Bond tried to think of arguments to convince her otherwise. But he knew he had no hope of persuading her. “Oh, all right, Kissy,” said Bond gruffly. “I was only going to ask you to row me to a starting point down there somewhere.” He gestured to the left across the straits. “But if you insist on being an extra target for the sharks . . .”


	7. Garden of Death

[Chapter 7 audio](https://soundcloud.com/linorien-undomiel/chapter-7-garden-of-death/s-rFwFW)

Kissy lead him across the dark waters and left him at the base of the cliff, promising to check back every night. Bond scaled the cliff and crawled as low as he could across the lawn. Not a wisp of wind stirred in the trees, but from somewhere came the sound of softly running water and, in the background, a regular glutinous burping and bubbling. 

Bond, a black shadow among the rest, edged along the wall to his right. His first task was to find a hideout, a base camp. Up against the wall, he came upon a lean-to shed, its rickety door ajar. He listened and then inched the door open. As he had expected, there was a shadowy jumble of gardeners’ tools, wheelbarrows, and the like, and the musty smell of such places. Moving carefully, and helped by shafts of moonlight through the wide cracks in the planked walls, he got to the back of the hut, where there was an untidy mound of used sacking. He reflected for a moment and decided that, though this place would be often visited, it had great promise. He untied the cord of the container from his wrist and proceeded methodically to move some of the sacks forward so as to provide a nest for himself behind them. When it was finished, and final touches of artistic disarray added, he stowed his container behind the barrier and crept out again into the grounds to continue what he planned should be a first quick survey of the whole property.

Bond kept close to the boundary wall, flitting like a bat across the open spaces between clumps of bushes and trees. Although his hands were covered with the black material of the ninja suit, he avoided contact with the vegetation, which emitted a continually changing variety of strong odours and scents. He came to the lake, a wide silent shimmer of silver from which rose the thin cloud of steam he remembered from the aerial photograph. As he stood and watched it, a large leaf from one of the surrounding trees came wafting down and settled on the surface near him. At once a quick purposeful ripple swept down on the leaf from the surrounding water and immediately subsided. There were some kind of fish in the lake, and they would be carnivores. Only carnivores would be excited like that at the hint of a prey. 

Beyond the lake, Bond came on the first of the fumaroles, a sulphurous, bubbling pool of mud that constantly shuddered and spouted up little fountains. From yards away, Bond could feel its heat. Jets of stinking steam puffed out and disappeared, wraith-like, towards the sky. Now the jagged silhouette of the castle, with its winged turrets, showed above the treeline, and Bond crept forward with added caution, alert for the moment when he would come upon the treacherous gravel that surrounded it. Suddenly, through a belt of trees, he was facing it. He stopped in the shelter of the trees, his heart hammering under his rib-cage.

Close to, the soaring black-and-gold pile reared monstrously over him, and the diminishing curved roofs of the storeys were like vast bat-wings against the stars. It was even bigger than Bond had imagined, and the supporting wall of black granite blocks more formidable. He reflected on the seemingly impossible problem of entry. Behind would be the main entrance, the lowish wall, and the open country-side. But didn’t castles always have an alternative entrance low down for a rearward escape? Bond stole cautiously forward, laying his feet flat down so that the gravel barely stirred. The many eyes of the castle, glittering white in the moonlight, watched his approach with the indifference of total power. At any moment, he expected the white shaft of a searchlight or the yellow-and-blue flutter of gunfire. But he reached the base of the wall without incident and followed it along to the left, remembering from ancient schooling that most castles had an exit at moat level beneath the drawbridge.

And so it was with the castle of Doctor Shatterhand—a small nail-studded door, arched and weather-beaten. Its hinges and lock were cracked and rusty, but a new padlock and chain had been stapled into the woodwork and the stone frame. No moonlight filtered down to this corner of what must have been a moat but was now grassed over. Bond softly retraced his steps across the gravel, stepping meticulously in his previous foot-marks. That door would be his target for tomorrow!

Now, keeping right-handed, but still following the boundary wall, he crept off again on his survey. He kept still as he watched from afar a naked man stumble onto the garden and run to embrace the lake. He let out one terrible scream, but the fish were faster. 

Bond paused again when he came upon a gentleman in quiet contemplation of the mud boils. He felt he should intervene in what he knew to be the man’s purpose. But how to do so, knowing no Japanese, having nothing but his “deaf and dumb” card to show? And it was vital that he should remain a “ghost” in the garden, not get involved in some daft argument with a man he didn’t know, about some ancient sin he could never understand. So Bond stood, while the trees threw long black arms across the scene, and waited, with a cold, closed, stone face, for death to walk on stage.

The man finished his silent prayer and looked up at the moon and tipped his hat. Then he strolled purposefully forward, and like a child pretending to walk the plank into a swimming pool, suddenly fell into the liquid. Only a rasping gasp passed his lips before all that remained was the top hat and then even that too was destroyed by the heat and only the stench of sulphur remained. 

Why didn’t the Japanese air-force come and bomb this place to eternity, set the castle and the poison garden ablaze with napalm? How could this man continue to have protection from a bunch of botanists and scientists? And now here was he, Bond, alone in this hell to try and do the job with almost no weapon but his bare hands. It was hopeless! He was scarcely being given a chance in a million. 

Cursing his fate, cursing Tiger, cursing the whole of Japan, Bond walked back to his base, while a small voice whispered in his ear, “But don’t you want to kill Blofeld? Don’t you want to avenge Tracy? Isn’t this a God-given chance? You have done well tonight. You have penetrated his defences and spied out the land. You have even found a way into his castle and probably up to his bedroom. Kill him in his sleep tomorrow! And kill her, too, while you’re about it! And then back into Kissy’s arms and, in a week or two, back over the pole to London and to the applause of your chief. Snap out of it! Get on with the job!” 

Bond listened to the voice that sounded like Ms Moneypenny and went round the last mile of the wall to reach the gardeners’ hut. Picking his way carefully between the equipment, he pulled the sacks over himself and fell into a shallow sleep. A sleep plagued by ghosts and demons and screams. 

 

He slowly returned to the waking world with the sound of cheerful Japanese being spoken around him by the gardeners. As predicted, they did not disturb his hiding place. Waiting until they had exited the hut, Bond shifted positions to better drink some water and eat a few snacks. Then he peered out through the cracks in the wall and watched the garden. For a few hours, nothing exciting happened. Then two figures strolled out from the castle into the gardens. 

It was Blofeld in his gleaming chain armor and Irma Bunt in a hideous bee-keeper’s hat. They patrolled the garden, discussing Blofeld’s greatness and the world’s small minds and Bond reflected that he truly was mad. They were close now, almost close enough to spit on.

They turned away and were about to continue along the lake when Blofeld suddenly stopped and pointed like a searchlight directly at Bond. “That hut among the bushes. The door is open! I have told the men a thousand times to keep such places locked. It is a perfect refuge for a spy or a fugitive. I will make sure.”

Bond shivered. He huddled down, dragging sacks from the top of his barrier to give extra protection. The clanking steps entered the hut. Bond could feel the man, only yards away, could feel his questing eyes and nostrils. There came a clang of metal, and the wall of sacks shook at great thrusts from Blofeld’s sword. Then the sword slashed down again and again. Bond winced and bit his lip as a hammer-blow crashed across the centre of his back. But then Blofeld seemed to be satisfied, and the iron steps clanged away. Bond let out his breath in a quiet hiss. 

He heard Blofeld’s voice say, “There is nothing, but remind me to reprimand Kono on our rounds tomorrow. The place must be cleared out and a proper lock fitted.” Then the sound of the steps vanished in the direction of the oleander clump, and Bond gave a groan and felt his back. Though many of the sacks above him had been sliced through, his protection had been just deep enough—the skin across his spine wasn’t broken.

One thing was clear —the hide-out was blown. Tonight would have to be the night. Once again Bond ran over the hazy outline of his plan. If he could gain access to the castle, he felt pretty confident of finding a means to kill Blofeld. But he was also fairly certain that he himself would die in the process. Dulce et decorum est . . . and all that jazz! But then he thought of Kissy, and he wasn’t so sure about not fearing for himself. She had brought a sweetness back into his life that he thought had gone forever. Perhaps she was his second chance.


	8. Stripped Away

[Chapter 8 audio](https://soundcloud.com/linorien-undomiel/chapter-8-stripped-away/s-Pa6P3)

At nine o’clock, he left his hide-out. Again the moon blazed down and illuminated Bond’s path. He retraced last night’s steps, staying silent and hearing only the distant bubbling fumaroles and chuckles of geckos. The winged castle loomed high and Bond noticed a warning balloon tethered to a pole on the balcony of the main floor. Nearby, light from several windows glowed softly and Bond guessed that there lay his target. 

Bond used the tools from Tiger to break the lock on the door and push it open. He used his torch to look inside and spotted a man trap on the first step inside. He cringed at the imaginary sound of the metal jaws clamping shut on his legs. Cautiously he crept through the basement and up through the levels of the castle, the doors becoming more and more modern until he arrived in a vast chamber of baronial splendor. 

As he hid from a passing guard, he reflected that this would be where Blofeld received visitors. And the smaller door must lead to his private quarters. Bond quietly but firmly thrust the door open and leaped through, ready for the attacking sprint.

A totally empty, totally featureless length of passageway yawned at his dramatics. It stretched perhaps twenty feet in front of him. It was dimly lit by a central oil lamp, and its floor was of the usual highly polished boards. He wondered if it might be a nightingale floor, but the guard he had hid from had receded with nary a creek. 

From behind the facing door at the end came the sound of music. It was Wagner, the “Ride of the Valkyries,” being played at medium pitch. Thank you, Blofeld! thought Bond. Most helpful cover. And he crept softly forward down the centre of the passage.

When it came, there was absolutely no warning. One step across the exact halfway point of the flooring and, like a seesaw, the whole twenty feet of boards swivelled noiselessly on some central axis. Bond, arms and legs flailing and hands scrabbling desperately for a grip, found himself hurtling down into a black void. The guard! The fiddling about behind the door! He had been adjusting the lever that set the trap, the traditional oubliette of ancient castles. And Bond had forgotten! As his body plunged off the end of the inclined platform into space, an alarm bell, triggered by the mechanism of the trap, brayed hysterically. Bond had a fractional impression of the platform, relieved of his weight, swinging back into position above him, then he crashed shatteringly into unconsciousness.

Bond swam reluctantly up through the dark tunnel towards the blinding pinpoint of light. Why wouldn’t someone stop hitting him? What had he done to deserve it? He had got two clams. He could feel them in his hands, sharp- edged and rough. That was as much as Kissy could expect of him. “Kissy,” he mumbled, “stop it! Stop it, Kissy!”

Of course when he came to completely, he realised it was not Kissy hitting him. (She would never hit him.) Instead Bond was propped up in front of Blofeld. It was him all right. The bland high forehead, the pursed purple wound of a mouth, now shadowed by a heavy grey-black moustache that drooped at the corners, on its way, perhaps, to achieving mandarin proportions, the mane of white hair he had grown for the part of Monsieur le Comte de Bleuville, the black bullet-holes of the eyes. And beside him, completing the picture of a homely couple at ease after dinner, sat Irma Bunt, in the full regalia of a high- class Japanese lady, the petit point of a single chrysanthemum lying in her lap waiting for those pudgy hands to take it up.

It was then that Bond realised he had been stripped of his ninja suit and was naked save for the brief vee of the black cotton ninja underpants. In German, the man who had awakened Bond was explaining to Blofeld the significance of the ninja suit. 

“And who is he?” Blofeld looked keenly at Bond. “He is tall for a Japanese.”

“The men from the mines are often tall men, my lord. He carries a paper saying that he is deaf and dumb. And other papers, which appear to be in order, stating that he is a miner from Fukuoka. I do not believe this. His hands have some broken nails, but they are not the hands of a miner.”

“I do not believe it either. But we shall soon find out.” Blofeld turned to the woman. “What do you think, my dear? You have a good nose for such problems—the instincts of a woman.”

Irma Bunt rose and came and stood beside him. She looked piercingly at Bond and then walked slowly round him, keeping her distance. When she came to the left profile, she said softly, with awe, “My God!” She went back to Blofeld. She said in a hoarse whisper, still staring, almost with horror, at Bond, “It cannot be! But it is! The scar down the right cheek! The profile! And the eyebrows have been shaved to give that upward tilt!” She turned to Blofeld. She said decisively, “This is the English agent. This is the man Bond, James Bond, the man whose wife you killed. The man who went under the name of Sir Hilary Bray.” She added fiercely, “I swear it! You have got to believe me, lieber Ernst!”

Blofeld’s eyes had narrowed. “I see a certain resemblance. But how has he come here? How has he found me? Who sent him?” Bond remained silent and the woman had nothing more to say. “No matter, we shall find out.” Blofeld dramatically pulled back a curtain to reveal a large clock whose only unusual feature was that, at each quarter, the figures were underlined in red. The hands stood at just after eleven, and now, with a loud iron tick, the minute hand dropped one span.

Bond had a sinking feeling. The seat he was perched on had a large hole. He had assumed the man was holding up Bond so Blofeld could see his face, but it was more than that. Above the stone seat, in the ceiling, there was a wide circular opening through which Bond could see a patch of dark sky and stars. 

Blofeld removed himself to the other end of the room. He spoke in English. He said, in a loud voice that boomed round the naked walls, “Commander Bond, or number 007 in the British Secret Service if you prefer it, this is the Question Room, a device of my invention that has the almost inevitable effect of making silent people talk. As you know, this property is highly volcanic. You are now sitting directly above a geyser that throws mud, at a heat of around one thousand degrees Centigrade, a distance of approximately one hundred feet into the air. Your body is now at an elevation of approximately fifty feet directly above its source. I had the whimsical notion to canalize this geyser up a stone funnel above which you now sit. This is what is known as a periodic geyser. This particular example is regulated to erupt volcanically at exactly the fifteenth minute in every hour.” Blofeld looked behind him and turned back. “You will therefore observe that you have exactly eleven minutes before the next eruption. If you cannot hear me, or the translation that will follow, if you are a deaf-and-dumb Japanese as you maintain, you will not move from that chair and, at the fifteenth minute past eleven, you will suffer a most dreadful death by the incineration of your lower body. If, on the other hand, you leave the seat before the death moment, you will have demonstrated that you can hear and understand and you will then be put to further tortures which will inevitably make you answer my questions.”

Bond stopped listening. He concentrated on regaining his strength. He sat relaxed and gazed nonchalantly round the room. He had remembered the final “hell” he visited with Tiger, and he was looking for something. Ah yes! There it was! A small wooden box in the corner to the right of his throne. There was no keyhole to it. Inside that box would undoubtedly be the regulating valve for the geyser. Could that bit of knowledge be put to some use? Bond tucked it away and racked his tired brain for some kind of a plan. If only the agonizing pulse in his head would stop.  

Bond looked up at the black-and-white clockwork face. It said 11.14. A deep angry grumble sounded from down beneath him. It was followed by a hard buffet of very hot breath. Would he keep his cover? Hell no. 

He stood and casually walked away from the seat. Then he turned and watched. The grumble had become a far-away roar. The roar became a deep howl that swelled up into the room like an express train coming out of a tunnel. Then there was a mighty explosion, and a solid jet of grey mud shot like a gleaming grey piston out of the hole Bond had just left and exactly penetrated the wide aperture in the ceiling. The jet continued, absolutely solid, for perhaps half a second, and searing heat filled the room so that Bond had to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Then the grey pillar collapsed back into the hole, and mud splashed down into the room in great steaming gobbets. A deep bubbling and burping came up the pipe, and the room steamed. The stench of sulphur was sickening. 

In the total silence that followed, the tick of the clock to 11.16 was as loud as a gong-stroke.

Bond turned and faced the couple by the clock. He said cheerfully, “Well, Blofeld, you mad bastard. I’ll admit that your effects man down below knows his stuff. Now bring on the twelve she-devils, and if they’re all as beautiful as Fräulein Bunt, we’ll get Noël Coward to put it to music and have it on Broadway by Christmas. How about it?”

What followed was a lot of Blofeld threatening and bragging in equal measures while Bond taunted him and wondered at his madness. Yet even as his mouth opened and shut and the air moved past his vocal cords, Bond paid little attention to the noises he was making. He was busy trying to figure out his escape. It wasn’t going well. 

“So enough of this idle chatter. You have already kept us from our beds far too long. Do you want to be hacked about in a vulgar brawl, or will you offer your neck in the honourable fashion?” Blofeld took a step forward and raised his mighty sword in both hands and held it above his head.

Springing into action, Bond grabbed the wooden stave from the wall and lunged at Bunt. With a loud crack, the pole dented her skull and the vile woman collapsed into the mud with a sickening splat. But this move cost Bond a slice to the shoulder. Distraction out of the way, he turned his full attention to his nemesis. It was a battle worthy of a National Theatre play. The sword whistled through the air and shone in the light of the lamps, but the nimble agent with a humble stave evaded the blade and continually hounded the beast. They circled like hyenas and Bond leapt off the wall like the partial ninja he was. 

Finally, dropping his stave, Bond lunged for Blofeld’s neck with his hands. Blofeld’s sword battered into Bond’s side. Bond hardly felt the crashing blows. He pressed with his thumbs, and pressed and pressed and heard the sword clang to the floor and felt Blofeld’s fingers and nails tearing at his face, trying to reach his eyes. Bond whispered through his gritted teeth, “Die, Blofeld! Die!” And suddenly the tongue was out and the eyes rolled upwards and the body slipped down to the ground. But Bond followed it and knelt, his hands cramped round the powerful neck, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, in the terrible grip of blood lust. He had told Tiger he prefered his Walther, but in that moment he knew it would’ve ended like this either way. 

Slowly he came to himself and staggered back, the pain in his head returning fiercely. He glanced up at the clock. Three minutes to midnight. And there was the wooden box, mud-spattered, down beside the throne on which he had sat, days, years before. He went to it and hacked it open with one stroke of the sword. Yes, there was the big wheel he had expected! He knelt down and twisted and twisted until it was finally closed. What would happen now? The end of the world? Hopefully. But he couldn’t stick around to watch. 

He went to the window and smashed the glass. He dropped onto the balcony. He tried to get his bearings, but the only thing he recognised was the warning balloon. The moon had slipped behind a cloud and only the light from the windows on this floor lit his way. But which way was the sea? The cliffs where Kissy might be waiting?

He had no time for rational plans. No time to sneak back down the way he came in. He had already wasted one minute of three standing here thinking. The last resort was his only resort. This helium balloon was strong enough to hold taut fifty feet of framed cotton strip bearing the warning sign. Why shouldn’t it be powerful enough to bear the weight of a man?

He ran to the mooring of the balloon. With a sailor’s knot, he secured a foothold for himself in the cotton strip and hoisted himself up. He cut the strip below him and he drifted away. It had worked!

But he was rising, not falling. The moon had come back out and he could see himself heading toward the sea, toward what he hoped was the Ama island, but the balloon kept raising him higher. Then blue-and-yellow fire sparkled in the upper storeys of the castle and an occasional angry wasp shot past him. Bond’s hands and feet were getting tired, feeling the strain of holding him. Something hit him on the side of the head, the same side that already was pulsing with pain. And that finished him. The silhouette of the castle swayed in the moonlight and then dissolved like sherbet in the sunshine. The top storey crumbled first, then the next, and the next, and then, after a moment, a huge jet of orange fire shot up from hell towards the moon. A buffet of hot wind, followed by an echoing crack of thunder, hit Bond and made his balloon sway violently.

What was it all about? Bond didn’t know or care. The pain in his head was his whole universe. Punctured by a bullet, the balloon was fast losing height. Below, the softly swelling sea offered a bed. Bond let go with hands and feet and plummeted down towards peace in the heart of a naval man, towards the rippling feathers of some childhood dream of softness and escape from pain.


	9. Rewritten

[Chapter 9 audio](https://soundcloud.com/linorien-undomiel/chapter-9-rewritten/s-O1rXv)

When the figure crashed down into the sea, Kissy sensed that it was her man, and she covered the two hundred yards from the base of the wall as fast as she had ever swum in her life. The tremendous impact with the water had at first knocked all the wind out of Bond, but the will to live, so nearly extinguished by the searing pain in his head, was revived by the new but recognizable enemy of the sea, and when Kissy got to him, he was struggling to free himself from the waters. At first, he thought she was Blofeld and tried to strike out at her. 

“It’s Kissy,” she said urgently, “Kissy Suzuki! Don’t you remember?” He didn’t. He had no recollection of anything in the world but the face of his enemy and of the desperate urge to smash it. But his strength was going, and finally, cursing feebly, he paid heed to the voice that pleaded with him.

“Now follow me, Taro-san. When you get tired, I will pull you with me. We are all trained in such rescue work.”

But, when she started off, Bond didn’t follow her. Instead, he swam feebly round and round like a wounded animal, in ever-increasing circles. She almost wept. What had happened to him? What had they done to him at the Castle of Death? Finally she stopped him and talked softly to him, and he docilely allowed her to put her arms under his armpits; then, with his head cradled between her breasts, she set off with the traditional backward leg-stroke.

When Bond woke the next afternoon, he could remember nothing. A vague memory of a dead man’s face, but the fact that he was dead left him with a sense of relief. He saw the pretty woman tending to him and turn to her for answers. “Who are you? Who am I?” he pleaded. “Tell me everything.”

“My name is Kissy Suzuki and you are my lover. Your name is Taro Todoroki. We live on this island and go fishing together. It is a very good life. But can you walk a little? I must take you to where you live and get you some food and a doctor to see you. You have a terrible wound on the side of your head, and there is a cut on your ribs. You must have fallen while you were climbing the cliffs after seagulls’ eggs.” She stood up and held out her hands.

Bond placed his hands in hers and felt it was good. Kissy’s heart was singing. There was much to be done, much to be arranged, but now she had got her man back she was desperately determined to keep him.

The doctor told her how to care for his wounds and she did. The doctor said to remind him of his past and she did not. 

And so the days ran into weeks and the police came again and again from Fukuoka, and the official called Tanaka came from Tokyo and he was the most difficult of all for Kissy to shake off. But the island of Kuro kept its secret. James Bond’s body gradually mended, and Kissy took him out for walks at night. They also went for an occasional swim in the cove, where they played with David, and she told him all the history of the Ama and of Kuro and expertly parried all his questions about the world outside the island.

Autumn turned to winter and Bond asked Kissy to share the bed with her. Winter slipped into spring and Bond dove with Kissy in the waters. There were good days and bad days, but the sun shone steadily and the sea was blue and wild irises covered the mountain side and everyone made a great fuss as the sprinkling of cherry trees burst into bloom. Kissy wondered what moment to choose to tell Bond that she was going to have a baby and whether he would then propose marriage to her.

The man Tanaka came once more to the island in the spring. He came alone, saying he wanted to search one more time for his friend. But Kissy hid him in the mountain cave near the five guardians. She placed Bond’s hand on her stomach and saw his face light up with joy. She would never let him see the obituary she stole from his friend. 


End file.
